Loss
by pamlin
Summary: Morgan captures a prisoner and Arthur and his warriors contemplate loss… I do not own Camelot and am not affiliated with STARZ in any way. All characters and settings belong to Camelot and to STARZ. I do not intend to make any profit from this at all. It is simply an homage. I did use the Old French spelling of Viviane's name, as found in the Vulgate Cycle. Thank you.
1. Chapter 1

Loss

Chapter One

"You have no common sense!"

Arthur frowned at the words, but kept a tight rein on his temper. The close quarters made it sure that there was someone within earshot if they shouted. Instead, he turned his back on his brother and hunched his shoulders against the verbal onslaught. When Kay was angry, no one could find harder, sharper words than he could. And he was very angry.

"I know who that was. I'm not blind! She was Leontes' wife, and now she's Leontes' widow. You need to stay away from her!" He gripped Arthur's shoulder and spun the king around. Of all his warriors, only Kay ever treated Arthur familiarly. Probably because they were brothers, if not by blood. "Do you even know what you're playing at? Do you care?"

"Enough!" Arthur shook himself free, using both hands to push Kay away from him as hard as he could, almost glad when his brother stumbled and fell back against the wall behind. "She's a widow, Kay. I can marry her now."

"Marry your champion's widow." Kay twisted the words into an accusation that arrowed straight to Arthur's heart. "Of course. Why not give everyone a reason to believe that you wanted Leontes out of the way, that you're not the honorable king everyone thinks you are." He came away from the wall to grasp Arthur's shirt in his fists. "You're a fool, stumbling around like a blind man! Don't you understand what people will think?"

"The people who matter won't."

"Who are the people who matter, Arthur?" Kay shoved him away and turned, shaking his head. "God, it's useless to talk sense to you. All you ever think about is yourself!" He stalked away, slamming the door of Arthur's room behind him.

Arthur sank down on his bed. He should have known that eventually Kay would see Guinevere come or go… His brother was a little too protective, a little too close, as if he feared that someone would do Arthur a mischief right here in Camelot, in Arthur's own stronghold. While the others had been shaken by Morgan's penetration to the heart of their home, her murder of Igraine, her almost coronation, Kay had been truly shocked and badly frightened. If Morgan could come here, unknown, unsuspected, taking Igraine's place, wearing Igraine's face, why shouldn't she find her way to Arthur's own chambers and do away with him there? Arthur was only too well aware of how his brother thought; Kay was light of heart for the most part, but he could brood a little too much, a little too long on imagined dangers. And no one could imagine as many dangers as Kay. He was too smart not to think things through from every angle. It was what made him a good marshal, a good advisor, but there were times when it interfered with what Arthur wanted. He always abided by Arthur's decisions – a marked improvement from when they were growing up, and it was always Kay who made the decisions… But he also always let Arthur know where he stood.

And this morning, he had come just a little too early to check on his brother, and had seen Guinevere leave…

"Open the gates!"

The shout drew Arthur to one of the arrow slits in his chamber; looking out, he saw Kay on horseback thunder through the gates at a gallop, and sighed. It was a good thing, he supposed… Kay would ride off his anger and come back with more reasoned arguments. Those were the ones that Arthur feared. Those were the arguments he couldn't dispute; he knew in his heart that it was wrong of him to keep after Guinevere… But he couldn't help himself. Her beauty was a brightness in the great castle; her skin was like fine silk… He always knew when she was near, could always sense her presence, no matter where he was, no matter where she was… He could no more have stayed away from her than he could have flown to the moon… "I love her," he whispered to himself, and his brow furrowed. He had tried to explain that to Kay, but it had made no difference. "I love her, Kay… " He had said the words at Bardon Pass, and Kay had only scoffed. But he felt the words so much more deeply now. Could he say them again and make Kay understand? "I love her! How can I stay away from her?"

The words fell into silence. No one heard them; no one granted him any relief. It tortured him to quarrel with his brother… There was no one else left now. Both their parents were dead; Igraine – his true mother – was dead. Leontes was dead… Merlin had walked out of the castle, weeks ago after Igraine's funeral… All Arthur had in the world was his brother…

He tilted his head back to look up at the sky, ethereally blue. "How can I give her up?" And if he didn't give her up, would he have to give up his brother instead?

A respectful knock sounded on the chamber door. Everyone else knocked. Kay just barged right in. Arthur almost smiled at the thought; a wistful memory of their childhood days sparked inside him; a time when Arthur had decided to hide out so he wouldn't have to do his chores. He had hid himself a little too well, and had fallen asleep in the great tree that shadowed the river. As he slept the same nightmare he'd had many times came, and he twisted right out of the tree and into the river, and he had had no idea how to swim… If Kay hadn't figured out where he'd been hiding, if Kay hadn't happened on the scene just in time to hear the splash, Arthur might have drowned… As it was, they had both gotten a soaking, and ended up stripping out of their wet clothes and drowsing naked by the water, waiting for their clothes to dry, and that was how Ector had found them… Arthur had indeed missed his chores, and Kay had missed sword practice. Their mother had been worried sick. The tongue-lashing they'd gotten that day had stayed in Arthur's memory for a long time…

He hadn't often gotten a tongue-lashing from their parents… Kay had always stepped in and taken the blame for his little brother. He'd been protective, even then. But he had always been the leader, when they were growing up. Kay was the one who had led them into the forest on a dare, and the one who had taught Arthur to swim finally, the one who had patiently corrected his letters… Arthur wondered if it bothered Kay that now Arthur was the one who led… He wondered how Kay felt now that their roles were reversed…

"Arthur. Sire…" The words were respectful, murmured through the wall. They all keenly felt his pain at the death of his true mother, and their words, their actions, were gentle, as if they grieved with him. They didn't understand that - much as he had honored Igraine - his true mother would always be the one who had raised him. Just as Ector would always be his true father…

But the day was just beginning, and there was work to be done. Everyone depended on him to make decisions, straighten out mistakes, settle arguments… He wished sometimes that Merlin had never brought him here to be king… Wished that the sun-drenched paradise of his childhood still existed in a place he could get back to somehow… Never again, now.

He sighed, and headed for the door.

Kay leaned over the neck of his horse, urging the stallion to faster speeds, thundering across the great plain in front of Castle Camelot. The speed - dangerous in a way, since neither he nor the horse were watching for rabbit holes, and a fall at a gallop could kill them both – stoked the fire inside him, fueled a desperate need to run away from responsibility that seemed just a little too heavy on his shoulders… But at the same time, the gallop took his thoughts off the cause of his quarrel with Arthur… Or at least the obvious cause. If he were honest with himself there were many underlying causes that neither of them cared to face…

He had told Arthur that his kingship changed nothing, but in a sense it had changed everything. It changed how he spoke to Arthur, how he behaved toward Arthur, even how he allowed other people to behave toward Arthur, although it hadn't changed how he felt about Arthur… What one could say to one's much-loved but very irritating little brother, one could absolutely not say to one's king. The much-needed thrashing one could give one's misbehaving little brother, one could absolutely not offer one's king. For one, it was supremely disrespectful, and as marshal his job was to insure that everyone showed Arthur respect. Including himself. Which was a towering challenge at times; Arthur was so very young…

But the point was that where there had been a time when he could have waded in and given Arthur the hiding he deserved for his behavior, now he did not dare lay a finger on the king… Where he could have given a younger brother a tongue-lashing that would have set him straight, now he did not dare say as much as he needed to say. He was still learning the painful lesson of how to guard a tongue he had never bothered to guard before. Still learning how to hold himself back when beating sense into Arthur was the only solution that occurred to him. If Father had lived, Kay might have learned from him how to ease into this new and strange relationship with Arthur, might have studied successfully how to love and protect his brother without disrespecting his king… He couldn't treat Arthur as his young brother anymore – those days were gone past recall, and yet he couldn't rip Arthur out of his heart and his soul as if the boy had never existed. They had been brothers, sharing everything, but what were they now? Oh, they pretended that everything was the same between them, but someday soon, they would have to deal with what had happened and work their way through to something new. With no one to show them how to win through the changes, Kay dreaded what the outcome would be, and wondered if Arthur felt even a tenth as lost as he did… For Arthur everything had always come so easily. He had coasted through life, the golden child, loved by everyone, protected by everyone. That he would end up a king somehow was no real surprise; reaching out and taking what he wanted was Arthur's way.

But how could Kay make him understand, if they didn't even stand in the same situation to each other anymore? How to drive home to someone who had always had everything he wanted that going after Guinevere was a huge mistake?

Because trifling with Leontes' widow could only hurt Arthur's reputation, could only jeopardize his stability on the throne. For all that things had changed irretrievably between them, Kay did not want anyone to think less of his young brother, and he would cheerfully kill anyone who threatened Arthur... But how to keep him safe when he insisted on cutting his own throat?

With a groan, Kay pulled up his horse and stared blankly into the trees that surrounded him, without really seeing them. There were times when he missed his father dreadfully. Ector had always known how to speak to Arthur, had always known exactly the right words to make the boy understand. Kay was woefully unable to deliver the advice, the wisdom that Arthur needed to guide him. The problem wasn't that the king was making the wrong decisions; nor was it that he was making decisions without using his heart… The problem was that he was allowing his heart to overrule his head. He was flinging himself headlong into the hornet's nest without stopping to think what the consequences might be…

He had always said he loved Guinevere… At first Kay had scoffed at the words, feeling that they were as empty as they always had been... But he knew how to read the signs. Arthur was an open book to him, and possibly to anyone else who could read men. He didn't ever limit himself to just one girl. At almost any given moment, there were two or three, and, of course, he never kept away from other people's girls, as Kay had good reason to know…

But Guinevere was different… He saw a different look in Arthur's eyes when the boy looked at her. A longing… A yearning, almost an ache. He wondered that Leontes had never noticed it until the end. He wondered that he himself had never noticed it until the end. He certainly noticed it now.

Casually, he stirred his horse into a canter, weaving in and out of the trees. A half day's ride from here to the east was a small village. A half day's ride to the west stood Castle Pendragon where none of Arthur's men went anymore. Arthur's half-sister – lovely though she was – was a traitor of the worst sort. She had brazenly tried to crown herself in Arthur's stead, and then she had let the nun take the punishment for her. Kay turned resolutely toward the east, the village, and the river…

The scream rose from almost right under his horse, causing the animal to rear up in fright. Kay leaned toward the horse's neck, throwing his weight forward to bring the animal down, at the same time pulling its head to the left, desperate to avoid the girl that flung herself aside. She had come from nowhere, and he wasn't sure how she had gotten so close to him without his noticing. As the horse came down on all four legs, he looked at the girl, keeping a tight rein on his stallion as it danced beneath him.

She was pretty, but very young. Younger than Arthur, barely more than a child, with long dark hair. Kay had never seen her before, and yet – for some reason he couldn't put his finger on – she looked vaguely familiar… She stared at him in such stark terror that he automatically reached out to her with compassion. "What is it? What's wrong?"

She recoiled from his hand, and his voice – though he'd kept it as gentle and quiet as he could - crumpled her to the ground in terror. She sobbed out the answer, trembling. "They're dead… They're all dead… someone came while I…" She moaned and buried her face in her hands, rocking herself as if she could soothe her fears with the motion.

But Kay was utterly lost. There was no village near enough for this girl to have come from. He had heard no screams, no warning shouts, no sounds of conflict. What could she be talking about, and where had she come from? A vague sense of alarm crawled up his spine, but her distress was palpable. He tried to keep the wariness out of his voice. "Where? Can you show me where?"

"You can't help them!" She screamed at him in helpless anger and despair. "You can't do anything for them! They're all dead!"

He drew in a deep breath and said sternly, "Then the king needs to know. And since the king is not here, I will be his eyes."

She looked at him then, her eyes wide in amazement. "You're from Camelot…?" As if the very words reassured her, she rose to her feet, inspecting him from head to toe. "Of course… You're with the king…"

He leaned down to swing her up behind him. "Show me where."

She pointed wordlessly toward the west, and gripped his arm as he reined the horse around. A sharp pain under her fingers made him jump, and she drew back from him, as if the movement frightened her. "I'm sorry! It was my ring… I'm sorry, sir."

He shook his head with a smile. "It's nothing. It just startled…" His voice trailed into silence, as the trees whirled around him suddenly in a dizzying dance. Something was wrong… He turned his head sharply toward the girl at his back, a mistake because it caused everything to spin madly so that he couldn't get his bearings. "What did you do?" It had to have been her. He'd been fine just moments before. Now… He shook his head trying to clear the cobwebs, trying desperately to gain control of the dizziness.

She reached around him to close her fingers on the reins, drawing them from his slackening grip, and when she spoke her voice had changed, deepened into the dulcet tones of a woman he had learned to hate for her part in his parents' death. "You're a gift, Kay. I was hoping for one of Arthur's warriors but I never dared to dream that his own brother would fall into my hands…"

Morgan Pendragon. Kay shied from her hands, unbalanced, and fell from his horse. Stumbling to his feet, he drew his sword, as vague shapes materialized from the trees, but it didn't matter how well-trained he was. Whatever she had done to him had finished him. He swung desperately at the nearest shape, missed, and staggered to his knees. No one closed in on him. They didn't need to; all they had to do was wait…


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Gawain squatted down beside the discarded sword in the grass. A sixth sense had told him the king's brother would end up here… He had been angry when he left in the early morning sunrise. That much had been obvious; reading Kay was much easier than reading any book. His emotions played across his face every moment; he didn't know the least thing about hiding them. The boy-king, Arthur, was the same way. Gawain hadn't expected to be impressed with either of them. The only reason he had agreed to come to Camelot was to get the instruction that would make him better. He had grown up as little more than a hired sword; his mother had been able to give him nothing. He'd never known his father. But he had known how to survive, and he had known how to watch others. In all those years of watching, he had discovered that those who could read did better than all the myriad fools who couldn't. Reading was the key to unlocking success in life. And so Gawain had set about teaching himself to read…

He hadn't often failed at anything he'd set himself to do. Determination was half the battle. But he didn't know where to start to unlock the symbols on the page of the book he had taken from a fallen enemy. He had a vague idea that by staring at the pages night after night, perhaps something would come clear to him, but it hadn't and his frustration grew with every failure. But frustration was only an emotion, and he knew how to tame those, knew how to keep at something long after everyone else had given up. The book was precious to him; a symbol of what he could be if he could only break the code…

He had been angry when he had seen Kay looking at it. The book was his, an intimate part of him in a way that nothing else had been all his life. To have a stranger touching it was like being violated. He had torn it from Kay's hands in a fury, but when Kay had told him the name of the man who wrote it, as casually as if it were the simplest thing in the world to glean that knowledge from the symbols on the page, Gawain's anger had died. Instead, he had listened to the man read, and been amazed that one so young possessed the code that Gawain didn't.

He'd learned since then that youth was not a bar to valor or knowledge. These brothers had claimed to be different, and they were… Different from anyone he'd ever known.

Like the first round of training in the courtyard of the great ruin that was Camelot. He had expected Leontes – a man he'd fought before – to show courage and determination, but he had had no expectations at all of either Arthur or Kay. It had surprised him to see Kay stand up for his brother, to see and feel the determination in that young face. On the brink of giving up on these men unsuited to be warriors, he had stared his contempt into those eyes and had it given back to him glare for glare. He might not have had the skill at that point, but Kay had had the fire and the courage.

And so had Arthur, once he had finally found the words. Once he had finally grasped what his own cause should be. He hadn't charmed with hollow, pretty words; he had demonstrated with cold, brutal action. No, it hadn't taken Gawain long to see the difference in men with character and integrity and the kind Gawain had known all his life… The kind Gawain had been all his life.

The desire to read had brought him to Camelot… But the desire to be a part of something bigger than himself, better than himself had made him stay…

His gut had told him that something was wrong when Kay had not returned after an hour or so, calmed and energized by the early morning ride. They were all aware that Morgan's scouts were always near, watching them, learning their habits, waiting for a mistake. Kay was too smart to have fallen afoul of them, and yet… And yet, he hadn't returned, and they all felt the absence, Arthur most of all. Trying to point out to him that it wasn't safe for him to leave the castle when one of their own had already disappeared was like to trying to hold back an angry bull. In the end Brastias and the men had locked arms to hold him as Gawain rode through the gates.

Now he knelt here in the grass, looking at the abandoned sword and knew that the answer he brought back to Arthur, waiting unwillingly behind the castle's gates, would not be the answer any of them wanted to hear…

There was no blood on the blade, and nothing to tell who had owned it and used it… At least nothing that anyone else would have been able to read. But it was well-cared for, meticulously oiled and cleaned, honed to a razor's edge… Kay was the best custodian of his weapons, the most fastidious in keeping them clean and well-cared for. Something else he had learned from his father, undoubtedly. The others kept their swords serviceable, but a sword was only a tool… And none of them had a sword like Excalibur, the king's great weapon, that would have inspired them to keep it with the meticulousness that Kay showed toward his much-humbler weapon. Knowing Arthur's recklessness, Gawain had always had a secret belief that Kay took care of Arthur's sword for him, too. It was always bright, sharp, extraordinary in its mirror finish – far more the kind of task that Kay would take on than Arthur… Just another way that the older brother looked after the younger, even though neither of them was very much more than a boy… It was always something of a surprise that they thought things through with the erudition of much older men. Kay always gave good advice; Arthur always gave sound battle strategy… Just part and parcel of the extraordinary character they exhibited. Could they have learned it from Ector? Those who had known Kay's father said they had; Gawain had never met the man, but he had nothing but respect for the sons he'd raised…

No, it was unlikely that this well-cared for, sharply honed sword belonged to anyone but Kay; equally unlikely that he would have carelessly dropped it here and never noticed. There was a reason it was here in the grass, unblooded, left behind. And it was not – could not be – a good reason…

He rose and looked around him with narrowed eyes… Yes, there, the grass was crushed down, as if by many feet. And there, stuck to the bark of a tree… He moved quickly, plucking the long strand of dark hair from the pits in the bark. A woman had been here; she had undoubtedly been the bait… And then more people had come… Men, warriors, because women would not have overcome Kay… There had been no real struggle… Why? Something the woman had done perhaps. A poison? A drug? Kay had drawn no blood, had apparently not even engaged the men who had attacked him… Men who had then mounted on horseback and moved off toward the west… Toward Castle Pendragon…

Morgan. It had to be. And what she would do with her prize was no secret.

Gawain turned back to his horse, weary and disheartened. The king would not like this tale; but they no longer had the men to storm Castle Pendragon and bring Kay out. They had lost Ulfius and Leontes and countless others along the way. More were coming everyday, but they needed training, seasoning, blooding… And Morgan's garrison was strong…

There were other things they would have to do first to be sure that any information she got from Kay would be invalid before she could make use of it.

He winced as he swung into his saddle… He had grown to like these two youngsters, playing at being a king and his marshal… He had grown to think of them as his own; the brothers he had always wanted and would never have.

One of them was surely gone now, beyond any hope of rescue; it only remained to protect the other and keep him safe; but Gawain's heart broke for the loss he was taking back to his king; so much loss in such a short time. He had seen it break lesser souls; if he had known how to pray, he would have prayed for strength for Arthur. For all of them…

Cold, damp, mildewed air swept across his fevered skin, and Kay stirred. Memory eluded him for a moment, until the point of a blade traced across his chest and he jerked himself fully awake. Dizziness still clung to him, but he could tell vaguely where he was; a cell with bare stone walls, and a circle drawn on the floor with chalk, surrounded by symbols. His wrists had been manacled above his head, the iron cuffs tight enough to hurt. The man holding the blade saluted him with a gap-toothed grin, but it was the woman who stood behind him who drew Kay's full attention… Morgan, watching hungrily, and her cold, cold eyes were somehow far more terrifying than the blade in her lackey's hand.

"What do you want to know, lady?" That was the man with the blade, grinning his rictus-like smile. Kay closed his eyes against the room, still spinning lazily around him; what had she done to him that still lingered? His stomach rebelled against the whirling feeling in his head, and he swallowed hard, trying to settle it.

"Oh, I want to know everything." Morgan's voice, deep, seductive, with an echo of laughter under the words. "But you can start with what he can tell me about Arthur. The better I know the little bastard, the more easily I can deal with him."

Kay slitted his eyes open to look at her, wondering what was coming; it wouldn't be pretty, he knew… He worried that he wouldn't have the stamina to withstand it, but he was determined not to give in. She wanted to know her enemy; the only way he could protect Arthur now was to keep quiet and bear whatever she did… He steeled himself for it, giving her back stare for stare.

"It's a young pup," the jailer said with a laugh. "Shouldn't take much." He sheathed the knife, studied Kay with cocked head, then curled his hands into fists. "Let's see how you handle it, lad." He pulled back his arm and landed a punch in Kay's stomach, followed quickly by more, hitting over and over again, until Kay sagged against the chains with a moan. "Too soon, pup. You'll have to do better." The man snapped a powerful backhand across Kay's cheek, and laughed. "The lady wants to know about the bastard king in Camelot castle." Another slap, a flurry of fists to face and stomach.

"I want to know everything about him. Who he keeps company with, how he's coping with Merlin gone, everything." Morgan's voice was tight with satisfaction. "Tell me about… Guinevere."

Kay said nothing. Words burned at the back of his throat, a rich vein of sarcasm and anger, but it was better not to say anything. A beating wouldn't be the worst of this; best to begin the way he meant to go on, and keep silent…

But the beating was bad enough; the man's fists were like stone, landing solidly every time, spreading a fire of pain like ripples in a pond. Swelling eyes had dimmed Kay's vision after only a few hard knocks, and now his right cheek burned, and the sickness roiling in his stomach intensified. And still it didn't stop. He bit his tongue against the pain, desperate to keep from crying out. "Come on, now, pup, you're not cut out for this. Even if you get through it, you'll not be able to get through what follows. You don't have the guts for it." The blows kept coming, and now the man moved around behind him, and swung his fists against shoulder blades, kidneys, and ribcage. Kay could feel his ribs give way, and the pain was breathtaking. He sagged against the manacles that held him, feeling the tension of his own weight in his shoulders and wrists.

The jailer stopped for a moment, leaning in closer, his chest hard against Kay's back, his words a breath in Kay's ear. "Just talk to the lady. It will all stop… I'll make it quick. Come on, lad."

He didn't bother to answer; just waited, wondering how much longer it could go on. It couldn't have been more than a handful of minutes, surely… And yet it seemed as if an eternity had passed.

"Wrong choice, boy. But you've got courage, I'll grant you that." The jailer moved back into Kay's reduced field of vision, his blade in his hand again. "Steady now. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, eh?"

A dam broke, releasing the sarcasm that burned in Kay's throat. "Oh, great… Just what every prisoner needs…" He heard the words rasp out on a sobbing breath and tried to stem the flow but failed. "A torturer who's also a philosopher…"

The man smiled, running the curve of his thumb across the blade. "Oh, he's a smart one, isn't he? This could get sticky, lady. You might want to step out."

"I've seen it all before," Morgan said, and her voice dripped with scorn. "Get on with it."

The blade shimmered closer, lifting Kay's chin and exposing his throat. His breath quickened, as the blade made a shallow cut in his skin. The jailer laughed softly. "Shallow cuts hurt the worst. The skin is more sensitive than the muscle beneath. That's why some people call it the death of a thousand cuts." The blade moved down his breastbone, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. "An artist can carve pretty patterns in your skin, rub in some dirt and oil, and leave a nice scar, eh?" He applied pressure, sinking the blade in a little deeper, drawing a sob from Kay. "Too bad I'm no artist. But I can scar you just the same." His knife trailed misery behind it, carving flesh with surgical precision. "And I know the places that will do the least damage yet cause the most pain. By the time I'm finished with you, boy, your own mother wouldn't know you."

"Not his face." Morgan's voice interrupted the man, the hint of a smile in her words. "He's too pretty to spoil his face. Besides, his mother's dead, so what would be the point?" She moved in closer, displacing her man, and drew a fingernail across the spreading pain of what must surely be a blackening bruise on his cheekbone. "This is nothing, Kay." Her voice was a purr of satisfaction that turned his stomach; her perfumed hair made his head ache and his thoughts dance dizzily. "What comes next will be far worse. Wouldn't it be better to tell me what I want to know now?" She laid a hand against his bleeding chest. "You will tell me in the end." Laying her cheek against his, she stroked the bleeding wounds as if stroking a lover. "This pain is nothing. Have you nothing to say to me now?"

He resisted the urge to pull away from her, though he couldn't prevent the shudder that spasmed through him at her touch. Instead he leaned against her, as if he could no longer stand upright and whispered against her skin, "Yes…" anticipating the slight hiss of indrawn breath, the way she moved closer as if she could crawl inside his skin, and imagined the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, knowing she wouldn't be satisfied with the answer he gave her.

But he was unprepared for her gentle embrace, a parody of a lover's enfolding arms, or the blasphemy of her lips pressed against his, her tongue probing, searching hungrily, as her fingernails drew blood from his back. "Tell me, love, and all will be well. I'll reward you before I kill you, I promise."

He turned his face away from her, and spat out the words, knowing he would suffer for them in the end. "Go to hell." No tremble in his voice, nothing but steel beneath the words. If he had inherited nothing else from his father, Kay had at least inherited Ector's determined courage, and that was something to be proud of.

She jerked away from him, swept her hand across his face, delivering a powerful blow to his cheek, and her ring split the skin. It was the diamond-hard glitter of hatred in her eyes that he took with him into unconsciousness…


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"No." Arthur looked at his two strongest warriors, steel in his eyes, fear in his heart. "We don't abandon him. We don't abandon anyone."

Gawain shook his head, and there was a weariness in his eyes, at odds with his strength. "We don't have the men to storm Castle Pendragon. We can't prevail."

"Then we find another way." Arthur leaned forward across the half-finished table, almost feeling Leontes' ghostly presence on his right. Leontes would have understood what he was trying to say. He wouldn't have countenanced this either. "He's my brother, Gawain. I won't leave him in her hands."

"We have to see to sealing up the tunnels to the beach, set extra men on guard…" Gawain shrugged his shoulders, then crossed his arms as he gave back stare for stare. His words were sense, Arthur knew that; Morgan would do anything to get what she wanted. Kay knew all the secret ways into and out of the castle. As marshal, he had even used them on more than one occasion. He could tell her a myriad ways into and out of Camelot… But he wouldn't. No matter what she did, he wouldn't, because he would be thinking of Arthur, protecting Arthur. He would die protecting Arthur…

"We will not abandon him. Understand that, Gawain. I will not let her keep him." Because he could too easily imagine what she would do, and it surged in his belly, sickening him.

He could see in Gawain's eyes that he, too, knew what Morgan would do, could imagine the whole process, indeed was already mourning the lost… Gawain was too fatalistic, too inclined to accept loss. Arthur fought against it with everything he had. Perhaps someday, when he was old, and had lost too much, he would be like Gawain… But today, here and now, he was not willing to let Kay go, when he had already had to watch his mother and father die, when he had already laid them in their graves… The only tangible link he had to them and to the days of his childhood was Kay, who had played with him, brawled with him, laughed with him, and followed him here to this place and to this point… Kay who had promised to help him build a kingdom. He couldn't do it without Kay…

A movement from Brastias to his left, brought Arthur around, shoving down his fear in favor of anger. "Find me a way. She won't win this round. She won't."

Brastias shook himself like a bear, and perched on the unfinished table. "Lad, she's already won this round. You hare off out of this castle to try and take him from her, and she'll understand just what kind of a prize she has. Do you want that?"

"If it will save him, yes." Arthur flung the words at him and straightened, hand on his sword. "I won't stand here arguing with old women. We have no time." He strode toward the doors, only to be brought up short by Gawain.

"What advice would your brother give you, Arthur?"

The words cut. He knew what Kay would say; he could almost hear Kay's voice in his head… _Leave it, Arthur. You can't throw everything away just for me. She wants to kill you. Don't give her the chance. _And if Kay had been here to say the words to his face, he probably would have hit him. He'd done it before, and then Kay had thrashed him, and somewhere in the midst of the battle, they'd settled their differences and come away closer than before. But he never hit Kay anymore, even when he richly deserved it, and while Kay seldom minced words, there was a difference in the way he spoke to Arthur now, a sort of measured tone to the words, as if Kay felt he couldn't speak as freely to Arthur the king as he had to Arthur, the irritating little brother. "It doesn't matter. Kay always gives sound advice, but Gawain, what would I be saying to the people if I didn't dare to take one of my own back from Morgan? How can I protect them, when I refuse to protect my own men? My own brother?"

"What would Merlin say, then?" Gawain grabbed his arm in a vise-like grip when Arthur tried to push past him. "Because you surely can't think Merlin would advocate this kind of rash action?"

Arthur pushed him away, trying to gain control of his fear and anger, trying to dig deep enough to find the arguments he needed to make these older, wiser men see his point of view. Because in the end, he knew he couldn't just stand by and do nothing. They had hours, perhaps a handful of days before she gained what she most wanted or Kay died… He couldn't live with doing nothing. "Merlin surely would not have me sit and look the fool while Morgan tortures and kills my own brother!"

And now the words were out there, falling between them into silence, as if none of them had wanted to put the truth that looked out of their eyes into words. Morgan would torture him to get what she wanted. And there were myriad ways to pry truth from a man. Arthur knew about some, and he could imagine many more. And if he reached toward the shelf behind the half-finished table, he would find many books that could give him more information than he needed to know about what the word torture might entail…

It sickened him to think of the way his father had died, walking along the shaft of a spear to pierce Lot's neck with his dagger and kill the man… That was one kind of torture; the torture of pain and revenge. He couldn't imagine the pain Ector must have felt, couldn't begin to imagine the anger, the determination… the love that had driven him to do it. But that was but a drop in the ocean of what Morgan had at her disposal to get information from Kay… And if it sickened him the way Ector had died, his father had at least chosen that, had chosen to remove a formidable enemy from his son's path and avenge his beloved wife, the only mother Arthur had known until he had come here… And there were other forms of torture… There was the death Igraine had died, and yet Arthur knew that Kay's death at Morgan's hands would entail far more than the death she had given Igraine, a slow, painful bleeding that had ended after hours of agony. Hours of agony there would be, but it would be agony that Arthur's mind and heart recoiled from, agony that roiled in his stomach, and rose into his throat. He would not ever abandon anyone to that… He couldn't begin to think about leaving Kay to suffer it…

Gawain had lowered his gaze when the words were spoken. Now he stepped back from Arthur, spreading his hands and hunching his shoulders, as if he were reading Arthur's mind, and the thoughts sickened him, too. "Then Brastias and I will go, but Arthur, you can't. It's not safe…"

"Safe? You think I want to be safe behind these walls while my men are out doing something to rescue my brother? You think I will patiently wait for you to come back and tell me of your successes, or God forbid, your failures?" He pushed Gawain back, almost willing the man to draw his swords, to do anything that meant a fight… Arthur was spoiling for a fight, if it would soothe the pain in his heart. "What kind of a king would I be if I never did anything?"

"A very poor one."

For a moment, Arthur stared open-mouthed at Gawain as if the words had come from him. It took precious seconds for all of them to realize that the doors to the hall had opened and that a man in a hooded cloak stood there, listening to them. And it took several seconds more before Arthur realized who had come back to them, and flung himself forward, clutching at Merlin's shirt. "Thank God! Merlin, I need you…"

Merlin pried Arthur's hand from his shirt gently, but his voice was stern as he took in the room, Gawain and Brastias pressing forward, and Arthur's distress. "Tell me."

Morgan settled into her chair and looked at her executioner and her serving woman. Viviane came forward with the careful measured gait that characterized her and poured water into a bowl for Morgan to wash the blood off her hands. She wore the inscrutable face that Morgan envied; Viviane's thoughts were her own, and not even Morgan could read them. It didn't matter. Viviane had proved her worth. Morgan dipped her hands into the bowl and watched the blood stream from them, coloring the water. "So… Your thoughts?" She turned her gaze on the man who stood before her.

"Interesting lad." He was cleaning his blade, not looking at her but lovingly wiping the blood from his knife, using a rag he'd taken from the bag at his side. "The young ones like that usually break easily. Especially the ones who've never been mistreated. They're soft. They don't really know what pain is."

"He didn't break." Morgan snarled the words, as she lifted her hands from the now-gory water and contemplated the towel that Viviane folded them in, carefully scrubbing her hands dry. "So you miscalculated."

"Perhaps," her executioner allowed, inspecting his knife with a keen eye before sliding it into its sheath with satisfaction. "Or there's more to him than either of us thought." He reached toward the table and plucked an apple from the fruit sitting there. Morgan sighed impatiently as he took a noisy bite and chewed contemplatively. "First mistake a young pup makes is to brag about how he won't talk. This one was silent. He knows all men have their limits, but he's unsure what his limits might be. Smart lad." He paused to chew a little more, then swallowed, hawked, and spit out a seed. "Hardly made a sound… Just the one cry when I cut him. The blade scares him, but not enough to overcome his determination. He knows his best chance is to just keep silent; it's easier than bluster and bravado and far harder to crack. A beating won't force words out of him, even the kind I gave him." He bit into the apple again as he stared into his own thoughts. "Later when I bring out the whip, the brands, the thumbscrews, maybe… Maybe not…" He looked at her then, and there was more intelligence behind his eyes than she had expected; she hadn't hired him for his looks or his brains… She'd hired him for his expertise. "The question is: is he more afraid of the pain than he is of betraying the king? And I rather think the answer may be the wrong one."

"He'll talk." Morgan snatched her hands from Viviane's and rose, looking down at the man. "You said you could make him."

"I said I would try. I said I had experience. I said I'd made others talk." He took another bite from the apple, smiling at her as he chewed. "We've been at him a goodly while. Let's leave him be for a bit. He's a smart one, and what he can imagine might shake loose something. I'll work on him again tomorrow." He tossed aside the half-eaten apple. "One more thing. You might put my instruments in the cell with him. Let him see them and think about what I'll do with them. Sometimes the bright ones can't stand the sight. And he is a bright one, isn't he." He pulled his bag free of the belt that bound it to his waist and held it out to Viviane. "Go ahead." He laughed at the woman's hesitation. "See? Even she won't take it, and I won't be using them on her."

"Viviane." Morgan's voice was all Viviane needed. She took the bag from the executioner, bowed her head to Morgan, and left.

Morgan ran her hands down her gown, drying them further. "You'd better be right. I need to know about my bastard half-brother. I need to know how to bring him down."

"Aye, you've a powerful need to know, lady. But if I were you…?" The man shrugged his shoulders, and his smile turned mocking. "I'd find a way to deal with failure. Because I think that lad in there just might defeat us both." He walked away into the shadows beyond the doorway that led into the hall. Morgan hissed at his back and paced across the dais angrily.

"Defeat is unacceptable." She stopped and looked out into the gathering shadows. She needed to go out into the night. She needed to confer with her mentors… She needed to go to Sybil's grave.

Decision made, she swept up her cloak, tossing it around her shoulders, and strode away.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Viviane paused outside the cell door, waiting as the guard opened it for her; no challenges, no sneers, no contempt. The men in this castle had learned that it was the women who held the power, and Viviane was Morgan's most trusted servant… There was nowhere in Castle Pendragon that she couldn't go.

It was a mixed blessing. Morgan valued her, that much was certain. She rarely shut Viviane out, rarely refused to share her thoughts… Viviane had become part of Morgan's inner circle, and in the beginning, she had rejoiced in her power, been glad that she could speak a word in Morgan's ear in the certain knowledge that Morgan would listen…

In the beginning… Before she had realized how much like Uther Morgan really was. Before she had realized that Morgan had lost her way.

She had thought at first, that Morgan really had given up all hope of the crown. Then she had understood that surrender could never be; but she had always believed that there was a chance that Morgan would win through to some kind of content. She had had her brother's respect; Arthur had looked upon Morgan as family, something he had precious little of… Viviane remembered the party Morgan had given the king and his company. It had made her nervous to see so many fighting men in the hall again. Men were unpredictable and violent, and Arthur's men were seasoned warriors to a man, but for the king himself and his marshal.

Arthur had been a boy; if he had seen twenty summers, it would have surprised Viviane. The man he called brother was only a handful of years older, and both had looked the veriest children next to the older wiser heads that surrounded them. Yet they had been at home among the warriors, at ease in a way that she hadn't expected. And when the threat of battle had stolen upon them – Morgan's trick; one that Viviane couldn't approve – they had behaved with all the courage of older men.

When had she first begun to realize that she was losing Morgan? When had she first seen that the lady was turning down the wrong path? Viviane closed her eyes and stared into memory. She thought it had been when the nun – Sybil – had first come. Morgan had known immediately that she was trouble. Her first thought – even in sickness – had been to deny Sybil the protection of her walls. But the nun wouldn't go away, and eventually… Eventually, she had won her way inside; gained a foothold in Morgan's household, and at last in Morgan's heart, and from that point, from that very moment, everything Morgan had set her hand to had gone wrong.

Now Sybil was dead, but there had been no change in Morgan… She had gone too far to turn back, and Viviane had watched her plotting against Arthur, slipping out into the darkness night after night, and no one knew where she went. From one of those nightly excursions, she had returned with a plan to capture one of Arthur's men, to find out from him what she could about Arthur and Guinevere. Why Guinevere, Viviane had never understood, but in Morgan's mind the boy-king and his champion's widow were linked. So day after day, Morgan had gone out, with a handful of men and laid in wait hoping to catch one of Arthur's men out alone; Viviane had never really thought that the plan would ever bear fruit…

Not until she had ridden back with a prisoner in tow. Viviane had been in the hall when Morgan returned with her men and her prize. The young man had been limp in the grasp of Morgan's men, and they had laughed as they dragged him across the floor... Laughed, as they chained him in the cell, as if what they planned to do with him was funny… Now, she had to enter and she dreaded it, dreaded coming into this cell that had held so many prisoners in Uther's day and so few since. Only Igraine for a short time, and now this young man, the king's brother.

Nodding at the guard, she stepped into the cell, but did not look at its occupant. She would have been ashamed to meet his eyes, were he conscious, and it was a source of relief that he was not. She stepped to the small table that had been placed by the wall for the executioner's convenience and laid the man's bag down on it. For a moment, she just looked at it, dreading what might be inside. But Morgan's desires on this matter were clear, and she dared not disobey. So at last, she unlaced the bag and emptied its contents on the table.

They were ugly things; she had expected them to be, though instruments of torture were – for the most part – beyond her ken. She cautiously spread them about on the table, so that they were clearly visible, shuddering at the traces of dried blood she found on them, and as she worked she felt a change in the room, a new awareness. Slowly, knowing she could no longer put it off, she turned and looked at the prisoner.

He was awake, squinting at her out of bruised and swollen eyes, and she could not help drawing her breath in sharply at what had been done to him. His face was badly bruised, and a cut on his cheek was evidence that a ringed hand had struck him heavily. His lip was split and bleeding, and although she could recognize him, the bruises, the wound on his cheek, the split lip and the swollen eyes had altered his appearance enough that she ached for him. He was fortunate that the executioner hadn't cut that face; it was clear the man had exercised a great deal of creativity in the shallow cuts that ran across his torso. Blood slicked his skin in glistening patterns that drew a soft murmur of sympathy from her, as she drew closer, unable to stop herself.

"I'm sorry…" The words fell into silence between them, sounding hollow and empty, though she meant them with all her heart. And she knew this was not the worst of what would come. The instruments on the table were far worse than the executioner's knife. Cuts like these would heal, a beating like this would heal… But there were other violations that would sear the soul as well as the body.

He didn't say anything to her, but she sensed his movement; he was twisting his wrists against the iron cuffs that bound him. And his hands were small enough that with blood as a lubricant, he might be able to free himself… It would take hours, perhaps days that he probably didn't have, but he hadn't given up hope of escape. It wasn't a broken spirit that looked at her out of his eyes…

How she longed to help him, but the guard in the hallway watched them both disinterestedly, and she didn't dare do more than step toward him and lay a hand against his chest, feeling his heartbeat thundering under her touch. "I am… truly sorry…"

"Liar." A single word, but so sharp, so cutting, even though it came out on a rapid, shallow breath and a grunt of pain. He would see her as the enemy, of course. How should he not? She was Morgan's trusted servant and had never professed to be anything else…

But she shook her head, feeling the tears that filled her eyes and threatened to spill over. She wanted him to believe her; if he believed her, she could convince herself that she hadn't sold her soul, that she hadn't somehow lost her way, like Morgan had… But she found it hard to believe that she would ever find her way out of this labyrinth she had sunk into. She didn't know how to save Morgan anymore… She didn't even know how to save herself…

So instead, she looked down at the flesh that shuddered under her touch, watched his blood stain her hands… Though in truth they had been stained long before this. When the guard cleared his throat, growing impatient with her immobility, she drew away at last, looked into his eyes and let him see her very real sympathy. It wasn't anything that would help him, but perhaps it would give him some measure of comfort to know that not everyone in this place desired his death…

He gave her back stare for stare, but she couldn't read what was in his eyes, and wondered if he could after all read what was in hers. So she said the words again, though she knew he didn't believe them. "I'm sorry…" And then she turned to go.

She was a blur to his swollen eyes, walking away from him; at least he thought she was finally walking away… His head still swam, the room still swayed around him in a dizzying dance. Whatever Morgan had done to him in the woods still lingered, in the ache in his head and the knot in his stomach.

Kay forced the discomfort down and worked on twisting against the manacles. If he could just chafe his wrists enough to bleed, he might be able to slip out of them… It would probably require a broken finger or two, but it was worth it for freedom. If he only had time…

Viviane… That was the woman who had just left him. He remembered her name from another night spent in this castle, a night spent waiting for an attack that never came. Merlin had believed that attack was staged by Morgan, but Arthur wouldn't accept that. Not until it was almost too late. Not until Morgan had almost taken the crown.

Viviane had been the calm in the storm that night… She was quiet, kept her head down, did Morgan's bidding with a slow, measured step, but he had sensed her disapproval, just as he had sensed her sympathy now. He had called her a liar, but some sixth sense told him that she truly did feel a measure of distress for him. He couldn't help but wonder why.

The right cuff slipped some, rasping cruelly against his flesh. Kay bit his lip against the urge to groan and continued, methodically twisting his hands against the iron.

She was an anomaly, Viviane… Her face was completely inscrutable. When he looked into her eyes, he could not read her thoughts; the markings on her face were a mystery. Were they magical symbols, or just reminders of her arcane origins? They disguised her age effectively; her inscrutable expression did the rest. She seemed ageless, timeless… Where had she come from, and how had she found her way here? Had she served Uther as she now served Morgan? And what was her connection to Morgan, how had a woman who was so much more than Morgan would ever be won her place at Morgan's side, and why had she wanted to?

Too many questions… Viviane was a mystery he couldn't solve, and he wasn't at all sure that he wanted to, anyway. She was clearly Morgan's creature, and her presence here in his cell, in this castle attested to that.

She had laid out the questioner's instruments on a table near the cell door. Their presence hung heavy in the air, but he knew why they were there, knew what impact they were expected to have on him, and refused to look at them or think about them. He would not give either Morgan or her man the edge, by thinking about what the implements on that table were meant to do.

A sharp edge bit into his wrist, and he swallowed the cry of pain with difficulty. He hadn't cried out but once when Morgan was in here, and he wouldn't cry out now, but the sting of tears against his bruises was like a fire in his flesh. Breathing was difficult, every move an agony… The blows against ribs and shoulderblades had borne fruit; he was fairly sure that at least one and maybe two ribs had broken under the onslaught, and the pain in his shoulders spoke of what might be a cracked shoulderblade, or might only be his own weight dragging on his muscles… Painful indeed, but it would only get worse.

So he pushed it down, determined not to let it slow him down or break it. If he could distance himself from the cuts, the bruises, the broken bones, he might be able to keep his silence, at least for long enough for Arthur to seal all entrances into Camelot and prepare himself for what Morgan might learn. He was absolutely determined that Arthur would not suffer because his brother wasn't strong enough… Best to try to be numb and to keep striving to free himself… If God answered prayers, perhaps he would be able to slip out of the manacles before they came back.

His gaze betrayed him, flickering toward the table, and he drew in a breath. Prominent toward the front and dreadful in his blurred vision was a branding iron, such as they had used on the horses they bred at home… When he'd had a home and a family and hadn't known a place like Camelot existed… Immediately, his mind conjured up an image of how that iron would be used and he could almost smell burning flesh, and feel the sizzling heat against his skin… For a moment, his courage faltered and his stomach heaved, but then he tore his gaze away from the table. That was only what they wanted… If he looked, if he imagined what every piece was for, that was half their battle won for them.

Again the sharp edge of the cuff lacerated his wrist, and this time, he felt the blood come - not enough to ease his way, not yet. That would take a great deal of blood… But he'd made a start… Shutting his thoughts off, he simply concentrated on the iron manacles and his throbbing wrists, working against the restraints with a mindless determination…


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

"Arthur is right."

Merlin's pronouncement was not really a surprise to Gawain. A glance at Brastias showed him that the warrior evinced some relief at the words. Neither of them had wanted to show caution at Kay's expense. They genuinely liked and respected the king and his brother. Arthur had brought them a sense of a higher purpose, but the real source of their admiration was his easy camaraderie with Kay, something neither of them had known with any other band. Gawain had had no siblings; Brastias had only once let slip that he had a brother, but from the way he spoke of that brother, they were not close, and perhaps had never been.

No, their family was here, and it had been greatly reduced in these last few months. Ulfius and Leontes gone at Bardon Pass… Others – all good men – fallen at different times in different places… Their table was only half-finished, but the only men who sat at it were Arthur, Kay, Brastias, and Gawain… There was a seat for Merlin, too, and perhaps – now that he had returned to them – he would use it. But who could say what the sorcerer would do?

They were none of them sure of him. Which made it odd, Gawain thought, that they trusted him implicitly. Neither of them tried to give him the same cautions they had given the king. Instead, Brastias shrugged and said calmly, "There are secret ways into Castle Pendragon. It's likely that since everyone left before Morgan took over that she wouldn't know them all…" His voice was skeptical, but the light in his eyes belied that skepticism. "She wouldn't have put the lad in the dungeons. Uther had a special cell near his quarters. He liked…" Brastias frowned suddenly, and didn't finish the sentence.

Merlin had no such compunction. "He liked to hear their screams." He looked at Arthur, searching for something. Whatever it was, he was apparently satisfied. "Brastias can guide us into the castle. But we must first get out of here without being seen."

"The tunnels," Arthur said immediately. "They exit on the beach beneath Camelot. We won't be seen."

Merlin nodded and looked at each of them in turn. "Only a handful of men. Brastias, of course, and Gawain. Me."

"And me." Arthur's eyes flashed. "I won't wait here."

Merlin met his fiery gaze, and held it moment by moment, but the king did not look away, and his determination was fierce. At last, Merlin smiled. "Of course not. As the king, it is your duty to protect your people." He sent a sharpened glare at them all. "But for this to be successful, we must be a small party. No more than us, and no one should know where we're going. We must not be betrayed."

Gawain nodded. It was sense; there were many people taking refuge in Camelot now. No one could be sure that all of them were really the king's loyal subjects. It had given Gawain nightmares a few times, how freely Arthur walked among them. Anyone of them could put a knife in his ribs easily, and their idyll would be over…

Arthur nodded sternly. "We go tonight. I won't wait an hour longer. Let that be clear. We go at moonrise." He stabbed them all with his burning gaze, then turned and exited the hall.

Gawain started to go after him, but Merlin stopped him. "A word with you both."

Brastias sighed and crossed his arms. "Yes, we know. Protect the king at all costs. Do you think we're fools?"

Merlin studied him for a long moment, his glare stone cold and hard. "Tell me everything. Kay should never have been out of this castle without someone by his side. Why did he go? What happened?"

Brastias shook his head, and Merlin's stony glare turned on Gawain. The warrior spread his hands helplessly. "They quarreled. I don't know what about. Arthur stayed in his room, and Kay did what he always does when he's angry. He rides it off and returns – usually within the hour – with calm and reasoned arguments that we don't get to hear, because he goes straight to Arthur…" He paused, then admitted with a shame he couldn't fathom. "It's happened more often of late. I don't know what they quarrel about. It's not always the same thing…"

Merlin paced away from them. "You haven't been thinking, either of you. Your duty is to protect the king."

"And we've done that," Brastias said hotly. "One or both of us is always at his side. And if not one of us, then Kay…"

"And who is at Kay's side?" The fire at the end of the hall leaped up suddenly, as if in response to Merlin's anger, and Gawain moved further from it uneasily. "Do you not think that part of protecting the king is protecting those whose loss would break him?" There was a groaning in the stone walls around them that increased Gawain's uneasiness. "Arthur has lost everything. What do you think he will do, if he loses his brother, too?"

"Merlin…" Gawain's voice trailed off as the fire leaped higher. He glanced at Brastias and saw that his fellow warrior was nervous, too. Licking his lips, he tried again. "Merlin… You're right, we weren't thinking… But Kay is a warrior, too. He can take care of himself…"

"Can he?" Merlin turned to look at them, his face a mask, hiding the emotions that the fire and the stone walls revealed. "Then where is he, Gawain? What is it we have to do at moonrise tonight?" He flung his arms out angrily. "He's a fine swordsman, but what is Morgan? What has she shown us? And you knew she would be watching and waiting."

He turned away again, pacing, until at last the fire died down and the walls ceased groaning. Neither Gawain nor Brastias spoke. Gawain felt the accusation keenly, admitting to himself what he couldn't say out loud. Merlin was right; they had been lax in their duties. They had narrowed their concept of protecting the king when they should have widened it. Arthur was only a boy; a boy who had lost his foster parents, his mother, and now, perhaps his brother… All in addition to the weight of the crown he wore. The toll on Arthur would be fearsome indeed.

Merlin heaved a heavy sigh as he stared into the fire, but he said nothing more. Oddly, it was Brastias, who kept his own counsel and laughed at everyone's opinion of him, who challenged the sorceror. "We weren't thinking," he admitted, "but now that we are, our thoughts shouldn't be only of Arthur and what he may have to face." Unspoken was their knowledge of what Kay was facing. "They're neither of them much more than boys. Because Kay fights well and speaks his mind, because his advice is frequently sound, we have overlooked that he's only a handful of years older than Arthur. A young man is rash where a seasoned veteran is cautious. We knew better. Our mistake was in expecting him to know better." True words, and sharp ones, that wounded as they struck home.

"We failed him." Gawain nodded, feeling the guilt like a stone in his stomach.

Merlin turned his head, capturing Gawain's eyes. "Tonight, we rectify the mistake. Let us hope that we are in time." He closed his eyes, and for the first time looked his years; Gawain had been told that he never aged, that he looked now, exactly as he had looked in Uther's youth, when the king had desired Igraine and Merlin had given her to him… But he had never believed it until now, when Merlin's eyes sank into hollows beneath his brow, and his cheekbones carved his face into a skull-like mask, and he looked a hundred years old, at death's door. "Perhaps the mistake was mine… Perhaps leaving when I did brought all this down on you."

No one had words with which to answer him. But Gawain knew that neither of them blamed Merlin. They blamed themselves and richly deserved that; Kay, too, was somewhat at fault, if only because he was smarter than this, but Brastias was right that young men often acted rashly, even when they knew better. "Not you, Merlin." Gawain sighed and settled a hip against the table. "Not you, not Kay, not us, not really… We all need more wisdom."

There was a moment's hollow silence, then Brastias said heavily, "We must prepare. Moonrise is only a few hours away."

Gawain drew in a deep breath and followed his fellow warrior from the hall.

Morgan lay shivering on Sybil's grave, listening for her voice on the wind. Sybil always spoke to her here; her voice was clear now, the voice of a teacher and mentor… At times, the wolf would still visit her, but now, it was almost always Sybil's voice she heard, speaking to her, advising her. Sometimes, she could swear she felt Sybil's touch, cold against her skin. Why not? Morgan had come back from the brink of death once; why shouldn't Sybil's soul live on, stretched on the wind?

_Let me see… Let me see, child…_

Morgan closed her eyes as the voice whispered against her skin. Sybil wasn't asking to see through her eyes, but to see into her memory. She opened her mind and let it go where it willed; Sybil would see what she needed, and tell Morgan what to do.

Kay rose in her memory, leaning down toward her from his horse, eyes anxious for her welfare. She smiled at how easily she had taken him; and yet, he wasn't a fool… She had known that, the first time she'd met him and seen the wary look he'd given her, the way he'd stayed close to Arthur while they were guests at Castle Pendragon. He didn't trust her, and yet she had fooled him by changing her face. Her power was more than a match for his intelligence…

_Be still, child. Let me see…"_

Morgan willed herself not to think, merely to let the memories drift, and found herself once again inside the cell with Kay. So real; she could feel the stone beneath her bare feet and smell his blood. The iron-rich tang of it in her nostrils was strangely exciting. She leaned in close, and her lips parted, remembering the kiss she'd forced on him. She'd tasted his blood, and more… His outrage, his hatred of her, his fear that he wouldn't be strong enough. His resentment of her power. Laughter flared up inside her. Reaching out, as if she were really there, she traced her hand over the cut she'd made in his cheek and felt his flesh flinch beneath her fingers. If this were a dream it was a shared one; but only she was enjoying it.

She closed her eyes, leaning closer, so close she could feel his heartbeat. Laying her head on his shoulder, she let her hand travel down to his chest, feeling him shy from her touch. Here, the executioner had cut a little more deeply, enough that her finger slipped into the wound, surprising a groan of pain from him.

_Shhh… Be still…_

She pulled her hand back, but lingered close to him, sensing his revulsion, glorying in it. She associated all men with her father, Uther, who had hated her and whom she had hated. Her power over the male beast was directly tied up in her beauty and her ruthlessness. Kay might not fear the executioner's blade, but he feared her. He could withstand the torturer's art, but she was making inroads with her presence alone. The thrill that fact raised in her belly was almost sexual in its heat; he hated and feared her, and that was how she would break him…

_No, child… This is not your road…_

Sybil's voice pulled her up short; she stepped away from him, and the cell faded, leaving her alone, huddled on Sybil's grave. "But I can break him!" she cried out to the night, searching for Sybil's breath on the wind. "I can!"

_No… _

"But this is what you told me to do!" Morgan sat up, raking the dirt on the grave with her blood-stained fingernails. When she saw the blood, she stilled, wondering how the blood from a vision had stained her fingers in reality, a tangible reminder of the power she'd had in her dream…

_This man is a gift. You must make him want you, child. Make him betray Arthur…_

She stilled, as the possibilities opened before her; vistas that made her salivate with eagerness, and yet… "How? After what we've done, how?"

_Be still, child, and think… You know what to do…_

The voice thinned on the wind and faded. Morgan cried after it wordlessly, but she knew that she was alone now, that Sybil had left her, as Sybil always did at moonrise. Be still and think… But Morgan didn't know what to do. She had been in his cell, urging her man on. He would never believe in her innocence now… She rose from the grave and turned to look into the woods with hollow eyes. He knew Morgan hated him; how then if it were one of her servants who helped him, soothed him, healed him? None of the women had been allowed near the cell except… Except Viviane, whose kindness toward young, hurt creatures was well-known in the castle. Viviane whose ageless, inscrutable face was alien and lovely. Morgan stretched her hands upward toward the night sky. "Viviane? Is that it, Sybil? Give me Viviane, as I was given Igraine and Guinevere…"

The pain in her stomach came then, crumpling her to the grass, followed swiftly by the convulsions… She screamed her pain to the night, writhing on the grass, and felt the wolf draw near, until she could feel his breath on her face. But when the convulsions ceased at last and all she could do was lie there limply and whimper in the aftermath, the wolf was gone. Into her or away from her, she didn't know.

Lifting her hands, she looked at them and smiled to see Viviane's elegant fingers.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Viviane shuddered awake, her heart pounding… The dream swirled murkily in her head, only half-remembered. Something had been stalking her, something like a wolf and yet not a wolf, and as its claws had snagged in her skin, she had wakened in a terror, crying out Sybil's name… But Sybil was dead, and there was no one here. She rested her head on her pillows, waiting for her breathing to calm. When she had first come to Castle Pendragon as Uther's young and innocent serving girl, she had often had nightmares, but she had grown out of them soon enough, when she'd found the king a far worse nightmare than her dreams. Uther had been a strong king, and had bred loyalty among his warriors, and so she thought there must have been good in him, but it was good she had never seen.

He liked to hear the screams of his prisoners, and so he had had the room nearest his converted to a cell. He had wanted a woman who was not his wife, and so had taken her and lain with her, and killed her husband, so that he might have her. He had plotted to kill his daughter, so that Igraine had sent her away for her own safety. And Viviane knew that he had been after the women that served his wife. He had never attempted Viviane, but she had washed and soothed the girls he had tried. Igraine had never known of those misdeeds, but she had suffered at his hands herself. He had been a hard man, a pagan man, and Viviane had not been sorry when he died, save for the land itself…

She had rarely had nightmares since his death either. But since Sybil's execution they came with renewed vigor, so that she almost hated to climb into her bed at the end of a long day…

She sighed, and sat up, her breath easing now, her heartbeat slowing to a normal rhythm. And thought of the prisoner, and wished she could help… She told herself it wasn't disloyalty to Morgan… It was only that she couldn't bear to see young animals suffer… And he was young, and he was suffering. Knowing that it was Morgan who wished to see him suffer, increased her sense of loss. She had thought she could make of Morgan a woman to be reckoned with. Instead, Morgan had turned to Sybil, and Viviane had lost her grip… Morgan rarely heeded her now.

Viviane rose, and drew on her robe. She wouldn't sleep now. Though it was early, she might as well begin the process of setting the new day in motion. She could at least clean the tables of last night's dregs and begin brewing the day's mead.

But her feet took her down a different hallway, and she was surprised to find herself outside the cell, nodding politely to the guard, who hastened to open the door for her. She hadn't intended to come here. It was only painful, and she had other work to do.

But she slipped inside, closing the door behind her to shut off the guard's disinterested gaze, and looked at him, shamed at what her mistress had done.

At first, she thought he hadn't noticed her. His eyes were closed, and he flinched as he turned his wrist this way and that against the manacles that held him. She could see the blood run down his arm and winced herself, imagining his pain. She thought he hadn't realized there was another in his cell with him, until he opened his eyes and looked at her. There was fear in the tension of his shoulders as she stepped closer, and she couldn't keep from asking softly, "What is it? What are you afraid of?"

He didn't answer her, but her voice seemed to soothe him, though she knew he thought of her as the enemy. She, at least, was an enemy he didn't fear. And so she crept closer, reaching up to lay her hand on his arm, so that he stilled under her touch, drawing in a soft, sobbing breath.

"Don't…" She could feel the blood running down his arm and ached that he would injure himself simply to escape.

He looked away from her, as if afraid of what she would do, and she knew suddenly that Morgan had been in here after she'd left… "She came, didn't she?"

He turned his face away from her, but she could feel him shudder beneath her touch. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of an answer, but she had one all the same. How it could be so, she didn't know for Morgan had gone out and she hadn't yet come back in from the night. It was impossible that she could have been here, except as a flickering ghost… Needing to know the truth of it, Viviane did what she rarely did, knowing how it would be perceived in this place where Morgan the sorceress reigned. But what she did wasn't sorcery… It was merely a woman's magic that told her what others were thinking, their deepest secrets. She only closed her eyes and sent her mind out questing.

He drew breath in sharply as her mind touched his, and she was shocked at the pain he was feeling… His breath came in quick shallow gasps, heralding a broken rib, and his wrist throbbed with the effort to move against the manacles… And buried deep inside his memory was the shadow of Morgan flickering close to him, touching him when he couldn't shrink from her… Yet she wasn't really there, and when she drew back and looked at him, it was Sybil who stood before him…

Viviane jerked back from him then, more frightened of Sybil's wraith than he was. Stumbling backward, she came up hard against the table, knocking the implements to the floor with a crash that brought the guard through the door. She turned quickly, lifting her hand, pacifying him with words she couldn't remember once they'd left her mouth. He went out again, and she stooped to pick up the executioner's instruments, feeling the horror of them as a fire in her fingers.

After she had set the table to rights again, she turned to the prisoner and found him staring at her. She said the first thing that came into her head, and was appalled to hear herself tell him earnestly, "Sybil's dead."

"I know." His voice was rough, yet gentle, as if he could read her fear. It was odd that he should be comforting her, when he was the one in chains, awaiting a terrible fate.

And yet, just as she thought it, he turned his head up toward his right wrist, and stilled. She watched him fold his fingers into his palm and then pull down, twisting as he jerked against the chain… There was an audible pop, a soft cry, and his hand slid free of the cuff, dropping like a stone to his side. His head fell forward, and she had to ease closer to hear his breathing again. Gently, she moved toward him, reaching for his poor lacerated wrist, and this time, he didn't flinch from her touch, though she could feel the pain under her fingers. He was fortunate… No fingers had broken, which could ruin a warrior's ability to hold a sword or fight. But his wrist was swelling, all on the inside of his arm, which could mean a break, a dislocation, or only a sprain. She wouldn't be able to tell until the swelling went down…

But he was working on the left wrist now, and she wondered at his single-minded determination. "There's no time," she whispered, lifting his chin with her fingers. "It's too late…"

"No…" Her words sparked a fire behind his bruised eyes. "It's never too late."

And oh, how she wanted to believe him…

They had ridden quickly, yet it had still taken more hours than Arthur cared to think about to reach the hills behind Castle Pendragon. Their caution had chafed at Arthur who had but a single thought in his head: to get Kay out. To pull his brother from that witch's clutches, if he had to burn the entire castle down. In his mind they were going too slowly, but Merlin's sharp yet understanding gaze had held him in check. Merlin would know what to do; he would know how to get in and out with no one the wiser, and Morgan would wonder just what had happened, why her prisoner had disappeared. The picture of his half-sister baffled and angry had appeal. He had tried to love her, but she had made that impossible. He had reached out to her as family, and she had rejected him. Kay, who didn't even share the same blood was far more family than Morgan would ever be.

He spurred his horse to a canter, only to have Brastias reach out and catch hold of the reins. "Careful, Arthur. We'll have to go from here on foot."

Which meant they were close. Arthur dragged back on the reins savagely, regretted it when the horse reared back and almost threw him. He threw his weight forward to bring it down, then patted its neck gently, whispering soothing words into ears that flicked back toward him, listening. When the horse had calmed, he swung down from it and looked at the three men who stood with him.

They would be expecting orders, some plan of action, but for once, Arthur was unsure what to do. They needed to go forward, but he was afraid their approach would be seen; if Morgan knew they were coming, she would kill Kay rather than see him rescued. Their only chance of success hinged on getting in and out undetected. He looked at Brastias. "You know the way in. You go first, and we'll follow."

Brastias nodded and turned away from them, vanishing into the night. Merlin went next, and Arthur followed him, feeling Gawain at his back. They would all look to him to direct this adventure, because he was the king… But right now, he felt like a frightened boy, wanting his father and brother to comfort him…

He had been prone to nightmares as a child, but ashamed that Kay – who rarely had nightmares himself – never sneaked into his parents' bed for comfort. Arthur looked upon his brother as a hero, an example on which to model himself. So he had shivered in his own bed, silencing his own screams by biting on his sheets. It had never occurred to him that the whimpers his parents couldn't hear could be heard and understood by his brother who shared the room with him. After two nights of horrible dreams of blood and violence, he had felt a weight settle on his bed, and his seven-year-old brother had said gently, "What is it? A bad dream?"

Arthur – who at five was too young to be ashamed of needing the solidity and protection his brother offered – had burst into tears and clung to Kay, wordlessly terrified. Kay had not really known how to react, being only a boy himself, but he had put his arms around his brother and patted his back and said words that Arthur had never forgotten. "It's all right. I'm here, you know, and it's my job as your brother to protect you from your dreams. You don't need to fear, Arthur."

It hadn't struck him then, as a child, that his seven-year-old brother who had received his first sword for his naming day only a year before was comforting with hollow words, that no one could protect him from his dreams. He had only believed implicitly that Kay could do it. And strangely, he had rarely had another nightmare. When his dreams had begun to turn sour, he had thought of his brother's promise, and the nightmares had never materialized.

Now all his nightmares were waking ones, and this one was the worst of all.

He almost ran into Merlin, unaware that the sorcerer had stopped suddenly. Beyond Merlin, Brastias was tugging at a large stone set into the hill. This must be their way in… Arthur laid a hand on Merlin's shoulder as he passed by, and Gawain followed him. Together, they set their shoulders to the stone, while Brastias tugged, and soon they had it moved aside, as quietly as possible. A tunnel opened before them, stretching away into darkness inside the hill. Arthur didn't wait, but started into the darkness, only to have Merlin pull him back. He turned on the sorcerer angrily, but kept silent when he saw Brastias produce torches and flint. After a moment's struggle, the warrior struck sparks off the flint, lighting the oil-soaked torches. He passed one to Merlin and one to Gawain, then looked at Arthur. "We don't know who or what we'll find in there. I should go first, and Gawain should follow me. If anyone attacks us…"

Arthur cut him off. "I won't run away. Put that out of your mind. You go first, yes, but Gawain, you should bring up the rear. We don't want anyone cutting us off either."

Merlin nodded in agreement, but after Brastias had stepped into the tunnel, the sorcerer refused to let Arthur go next, pushing him behind him as if he could protect the king with his very presence. Arthur snorted but said nothing, merely following them, chafing at the delay. Too long… They were taking too long; it terrified him that – now when his brother was the one who needed his protection – they were creeping along in this tunnel at a snail's pace, with the darkness closing in on all sides, seeking to prevent them from reaching Kay's side… It was worse than a nightmare really. He wanted nothing more than to race ahead, recklessly, if it would get him to Kay faster, and yet he understood that it was the worst thing he could do. He laid a hand on Merlin's back, longing to shove him out of the way and run… To swing his sword at anything and everything that stood in his way as if that were the answer…

Merlin glanced back at Arthur, his dark eyes inscrutable. "Patience, Arthur. We will come in time."

And Arthur wished fervently that he could believe that.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

A single cry from the guard made Viviane swing around, dropping Kay's hand, wondering if she had been discovered and what the consequences would be if Morgan found her here. It was hard to know what the lady would do, now that Viviane no longer understood her. But the dread that pounded heavily beneath her breastbone was more than a fear of what Morgan would do; it was a premonition of what was coming, a fear of what she was about to see that boiled in her belly, and thundered in her ears. Something was not right… Why should the guard cry out once and not again? Why should he cry out at all?

The cell door scraped open, slowly, as if it was too heavy for the hand that pushed it. Viviane backed up, felt Kay's free hand against her back, and stopped, shuddering. She had rarely felt such fear; only once before, when she had been taken by force from her home and brought here to this place… The dread then had been for her capture; what was it for now?

In a moment, the door finally opened wide enough to show her. She moaned when she looked into her own face, and saw the bloody knife in her own hand… Beyond her doppelganger, she saw the guard lying still in the hall, silenced forever. No mystery now about why he had cried out once and not again. He was dead before he could alert the castle.

"My God…" Kay's voice… Viviane turned toward him and saw him look from her to the woman who stood in the doorway, her twin.

"It's not me…"

The other woman's surprise was equally deep. She took a step forward, staring at Viviane. "No… She's not me." She sprang forward, raising the knife, and Viviane fell back, avoiding the strike. The knife arrowed past Kay's shoulder, and he twisted away from it, lifting his free hand to knock it aside. It slipped from the other woman's grasp, ringing against the stone floor. Viviane moved behind Kay, laying her hands against his back, trembling as she stared at her double. Her other self stepped backward, looking at them both, and something in her eyes finally told Viviane who stood before her…

"It's Morgan…" The words came out on a breath, audible only to Kay. He twisted his left wrist against the last manacle, pulling with all his strength, and she felt his breath quicken. He was afraid of Morgan; he knew what she was, what she could do… And she couldn't be here, wearing Viviane's face for any good reason.

"Don't listen to her…" The false Viviane pleaded with face and voice, a plea that never reached her cold, cold eyes. "I came to help you. See, here's the key!" She dug in the pouch beneath her skirts and held out a large iron key, as if it would prove her innocence. A master stroke, for Viviane herself had not come with the key to his freedom, had only come to see him and ache for him… She had never had access to the key…

The other woman moved closer, but as if he sensed that she was poison, Kay twisted away from her, frantically trying to free himself. Viviane moved away from him, kicking the knife on the floor, and reaching for the key. "It's a lie. I never had access to the key. Only Morgan has access."

"Who's lying now?" the other woman demanded harshly, her voice more Morgan's than Viviane's. "Here is the key. That woman didn't bring it, I did. Who is your ally and who your enemy?"

He shook his head, uncertain, staring from one to the other of them out of bruised and swollen eyes. "I don't…" His voice trailed into silence.

Viviane's hand closed over air, as her twin snatched the key away. "You shan't have it. Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"Morgan…" Viviane said her name in disbelief, afraid of the way the lady could wear her face and imitate her actions, ashamed of how much she had trusted her, anxious now that all was lost simply because of her presence here where she shouldn't have been. And yet, if she hadn't found her way here, Morgan's plot – whatever it was – could have gone forward. Kay would never have known that she was wearing Viviane's face. "Morgan, why?"

The false Viviane fell back a step, turning her head to look from one to the other, from Viviane's wide, accusing eyes to Kay's shocked glare. "I came to free you…"

"I don't believe you…" His words were whispered, a mere breath in the suddenly cold room. He lifted his chin and said them again, his voice stronger, the words like steel. "I don't believe you. You fooled me once, Morgan. You won't do it again."

"She's Morgan…"

He shook his head. "She's not. She didn't come here to trick me. She didn't come here to show me anything but sympathy, because it was all she had. You're the enemy."

Viviane observed the silent tableau, unable to find words to praise his clear-sightedness, amazed that he could tell the difference between them. He had said she'd fooled him once… It must have been in the woods, where she'd taken him; had she worn a different face for him then, too?

It was surreal to see the small trickle of blood from her own nose; for a moment, it almost made Viviane feel some sympathy for the lady. But then Morgan lifted her hand and wiped the blood away, and her eyes lightened and blazed, blue in Viviane's face. More blood joined the smear she had left, leaking steadily. "You're a fool, Kay. I always knew it." Her voice was Morgan's now, as well as her eyes, but she clung to Viviane's face, as if it offered her some kind of shield against the look in Kay's eyes. She approached, the key still clutched in her hand. "I would have freed you… And then rewarded you…"

"I want no reward you have to offer." He jerked at the manacle binding his left wrist again, grunting as it scraped deeper into his skin. "And I can free myself."

Viviane's face slipped away now, the skin blanching to Morgan's own pale coloring; tiny wrinkles followed it, making Morgan seem older than she was, and each wrinkle leaked blood. Morgan didn't bother to wipe it away again. Instead, she swung the heavy key across Kay's face, snapping his head to one side. "Die here, then." Her gaze fled to Viviane. "And you with him." She turned for the door, and Viviane realized that if she set foot outside it, and sealed the door, they would die in here before she ever returned. She was no longer interested in information, she wanted only revenge for her mistake, and she would condemn them both. Viviane stooped down to pick the discarded knife up and ran lightly after Morgan.

"No. You won't do this." She reached out and grabbed Morgan's long hair, stabbing at her with the knife, but she couldn't bring herself to do more than open a cut in the lady's arm. Morgan had elevated her above the other servants, Morgan had trusted her for so long… And she had trusted Morgan. She couldn't kill her.

But Morgan gasped as the knife slid into her arm, dropped the key, and tore away from Viviane, leaving several long strands of hair in her grasp. She leaped for the door, but Viviane was there first, having paused only briefly to grip the key, before going after Morgan with all her strength, turning the hilt of the dagger toward Morgan's face, striking as hard as she could. Morgan went down on the cold stone floor, and Viviane stomped down hard on her hand, feeling the bone crack beneath her foot. Morgan cried out and shoved at her serving woman with her other hand, knocking Viviane to her knees, but Viviane was stronger now; she knew it, and though it cut her to the quick, she used that strength, snatching up the branding iron on the table near their struggle, and hitting Morgan on the head with it, praying that the blow wouldn't kill. Morgan fell away from her, eyes closing, and lay limp on the floor inside the cell door.

For a moment, Viviane panted as if she'd been fighting for her life, then she levered herself up, feeling her muscles protest. Her breath came in quick gasps, response to the nausea that rose into her throat. "I'm sorry…" she said to the lady, lying there on the floor, unable to hear her. "I'm sorry…"

She shouldn't have been; Morgan had betrayed her, but she felt as if the treachery were all on her side. Turning she looked into Kay's eyes and saw his suspicion; she showed him the key, then reached up to unlock the chain that held him. He fell heavily to his knees, and she went down with him, reaching out to catch him, as if she could bear his weight. He flinched from her and she curled away from him, aching for his distrust. For a long time, she huddled there, unable to move, unable to think. It was Kay's touch that finally roused her.

"You can't stay here now." The words were only truth, yet Viviane longed to deny them.

"I have no options…" That was truth, too. She had been here most of her life, had been brought here as a young maid, little more than a child, and had never left the castle, except as a servant of the king or of Morgan since. She had nowhere else to go; her homeland was across the sea, too far away and too long lost to her people for her to return now. Her home in this cold and forbidding land had been raided and burned long ago, before she was brought here. Where could she go?

He struggled to his feet, and she heard his breath, coming too quickly and too labored. He would never make it out of the castle, unless she showed him the secret ways, the ways she should never have known, yet had made it her business to know. The ways that she had never shown Morgan or Morgan's men or Morgan's nun.

But he went past her, going slowly, his movement stiff and painful, and picked up the dead guard's sword. She thought he would leave her then, but he returned, offering her his hand to help her rise. She didn't take it, knowing it would only hurt him. Instead she rose up on her own, graceless and slow, unsure what to do now. He stepped back to give her room to rise and shifted the sword from his right to his left hand, curling his injured wrist against his still-bleeding chest. "You could come with me. To Camelot. If we can find our way out of here."

She stared at him, astonished at his offer, dazed by his generosity, and wondering if she dared take advantage of it. It was his need that decided her, the need he didn't express to her, the knowledge he didn't even know she could give him… If they met any guards, he would be killed; he couldn't fight with his left hand, and his right was too severely injured to wield a sword. He needed the secret ways. And only she knew them. So she would show him how to escape, and he would take her to Camelot, and perhaps in time she could come to peace over this night. She glanced aside at Morgan, glad when she saw the lady's chest rise and fall with her breathing; she lived still then. Silently, Viviane stepped past her, laying her arm across Kay's shoulder, to support him. "Listen… I will tell you what I know…"

Brastias cursed long and hard at the wall that blocked their path. Either someone had sealed up the damned tunnel, or he'd taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way. Swinging around he glared at Merlin at if it were the sorcerer's fault. "We're lost."

Merlin lifted his eyebrows, not a question but a disagreement. "I told you you should have turned left back there."

"No one knows these tunnels better than I do," Brastias insisted, though in truth, Leontes might have had an edge. Even Ulfius had been able to find his way around them. Brastias had taken a painfully long time to learn them, since creeping around under hills was not his forte. He preferred the open air and an honest fight. Truth to tell, this kind of lurking around in shadows, surrounded by unyielding stone that could close in on him at any moment was his idea of hell, if hell existed. But this was the way in, and he had balked just like the king had at leaving one of their company in Morgan's hands. He swore again, and pushed past Merlin. "Fine. We'll go left at the fork. But it's the wrong way." Actually, it probably wasn't. But he wasn't going to admit in anyone's hearing that Merlin knew the way better than he did.

Arthur slid back to let him by, and Gawain crossed his arms and glared. "How many times is this, now? Eight?"

"No!" Brastias elbowed Gawain aside. "If you'd stop yammering at me, I could find the way."

"Let's hope so." That was Arthur's voice, stern and disapproving. Underneath it lay something else, something that Brastias could all too easily identify. The young king was afraid; not of the stone that loomed above them, not of the men who might lie in wait for them somewhere in the tunnels. He was afraid that they would come too late. It was that fear that shut Brastias up and pushed him forward. He had sworn an oath to this king; more, he had come to respect this king. He wouldn't let the boy down.

It was a short path back to the fork in the tunnel. This time Brastias took the left way, and knew as soon as he turned into it that it was the right path. Damn Merlin… How had he known? He had been in the tunnels when Uther was alive, but he hadn't studied them or explored them as the warriors had, knowing that the king's safety might depend on their ability to get him out of the castle and away to freedom should the need arise. It was why they had studied the tunnels in Camelot, too. Every castle had secret paths. They were a necessary evil; it was important to know them well.

"You're going too fast. Your haste has made you forget what you know." Merlin tapped his shoulder as he imparted this wisdom. "You are a seasoned warrior, Brastias. You know we'll come in time. Morgan won't have killed him yet. It's only been a day."

"A day too long," Arthur snapped, angered by the sorcerer's seeming indifference. "You never wanted me to bring him with me, did you, Merlin? You never wanted him at Camelot." The accusation might or might not have been true. Brastias hadn't traveled with them from Ector's castle in the north to Camelot, and no one could read Merlin's thoughts.

But where an accusation such as that would have made Brastias draw his sword, Merlin merely said mildly, "Are you not stronger together?" His hand, firm against Brastias' back, pushed him on. "You are letting your heart rule your head. Did not Ector teach you to use your heart in conjunction with your head? Morgan wants something. She will not throw away her one chance to get it. We will come in time."

Arthur drew in breath as if preparing to say something, but the words never came; Brastias knew that meant that he was thinking about what Merlin had said. It was sense, but Merlin always spoke sense, except on the rare occasions when he was mad… Then he only scribbled on precious sheets of vellum and whispered to himself and shut himself away from everyone for weeks at a time. The only time Brastias really feared the sorcerer was when he was mad. No one could predict what a madman would do…

The tunnel began to widen; soon they would come to a wall that – if all was as it used to be – would slide open ingeniously to let them into the bowels of the castle. They would pass through the dungeons first; Uther had used them only for prisoners he never wanted to see again. For the ones he wanted to torture, he had used the cell near his chambers. Brastias had been set to guard that cell on more than one occasion. He had never liked what went on inside it, yet he knew it intimately. Uther had been a good king, but a hard man…

Merlin's torch blazed a little brighter, showing Brastias that he had almost walked into the wall that he was looking for. He muttered a thanks and set his large hands to the cold stone and heaved; the wall moved beneath his fingers and he laughed delightedly. No one had sealed it up after all. It was still here, though rusty from disuse. He pushed again, harder, and the wall slid aside, showing them a wide, dark corridor between rusting cells. The dungeons. "All right, lads, stay with me. We've only a little more to go." He drew his sword and stepped onto the castle's stone floors. "He won't be here, but we'll check anyway. You never know what she'll do."

Arthur swept past him, peering into the cells, though he couldn't see into the shadows, because he carried no torch. Gawain came up behind him, slipping his own torch between the bars, so the young king could see that the cells were empty. Brastias left them to it, and went on toward the stair that led down into these depths. He didn't need a torch; he knew this castle well, and was comfortable in the darkness. He jogged lightly up the steps, reaching the top easily, without even breathing heavily. He laid a hand on the door, his sword at the ready, and gently pushed it open.

It groaned in protest, but it wasn't locked. Clearly Morgan hadn't used the dungeons since her father had died. He went through into the narrow hall tucked away behind the more-frequented parts of the castle, and heard an echo to his footsteps. Someone was coming…

He slid up against the wall as quietly as he could and listened; this night would be a total loss if their entry were discovered. Whoever these intruders were, they would need to be silenced quickly. He slipped along the wall, until he was close enough to hear them breathe. One of them moved too slowly and his breathing was labored; the other was lighter, and her movements had more grace to them. A pair of lovers maybe? It didn't matter; both would have to die this night. He went for the man first, grabbing his arm and pushing him back against the wall, hearing the grunt of pain. Shortening his grip on his sword, he laid it across his prisoner's throat, but hesitated…

Something felt familiar here.

The woman struck at him, and he shoved her away casually, keeping his sword at the man's throat, wondering why he was hesitating. He should kill them both; the woman might run for help…

Only she didn't, and Merlin was coming at a run, his torch blazing enough that Brastias could see his prisoner's face…

He jerked back, pulling his sword away from Kay's throat with an oath. "What the hell are you doing running around here in the dark? I might have killed you…" But his voice trailed away into silence as he took in the bruises, the sluggishly bleeding cuts, the disfigurement of a severe beating, and the swollen wrist curled against the brutally carved chest. "My God…"

Arthur had come up behind him. Brastias stepped aside, knowing suddenly that he would have to restrain the young king when he saw his brother's face. He sheathed his sword and stood ready as Arthur looked in silence, his face carved in stone.

After a moment, he turned those blazing eyes on Brastias. "I'll kill her." He started to push past his warrior, drawing his sword, but Brastias caught him by the arms and held him, as Kay started forward with a protest.

"Arthur, no…"

"No?" Arthur struggled in Brastias' grasp, twisting agilely, so that Brastias was glad when Gawain came up behind him to link his arms through the king's elbows, helping Brastias to hold him. "Let me go! I will kill her for this."

Kay dropped the sword he carried in his left hand and gripped Arthur's shoulder, wincing as he curled his fingers in the stiff fabric of Arthur's tunic. "Stop this. What do you think you can accomplish? We're five men…"

"Four," Gawain said grimly. "Or are you planning to fight with your left hand?"

Kay looked aside at him, puffing up with offended pride. "Do you think I can't?"

"I think you can't," Arthur cried out then, pushing at Brastias in his struggle. "Gawain, you will get him out of here."

"He will not." For all his injuries, for all that his breath came in sobbing gasps, symptom of broken ribs, for all that the blood still leaked from his wounds, Kay still had fire. Brastias was amazed that he had held out against the beating that had been given him; he had seen lads that young fail under less. "He and Brastias will get us both out. I'll not leave you, Arthur. You had better think about that."

And Arthur stilled, shooting his brother a hardened glare. "I'm the king. You'll do what I say."

"You're my brother. When have I ever left you?"

Merlin sighed in impatience. "Be still, all of you." He turned away from them, and looked at the woman.

Brastias turned his head to look, too, wondering why she hadn't run, wondering why she stood there now, looking at them with what passed for courage. Morgan's serving woman, with the tattoos on her face, marks of her strange origins. She had come to the castle as a young girl, captured in some distant village to the east, and sold to Uther. She had always crept around quietly, but there was more to her than anyone thought. Brastias had always suspected her of a form of witchcraft; there were times when she seemed to know things that she shouldn't have known, as if she read minds…

She flinched from Merlin's stare, and Kay – who should have known better – moved to shield her from his eyes. "Leave her alone, Merlin. She's as much a victim as anyone here."

"She's Morgan's creature." But the words were mild, as if Merlin were thinking, contemplating possibilities.

"She helped me. She didn't have to."

"Or maybe she did."

Kay shook his head angrily. "You don't have any idea. She was betrayed, Merlin. She can't stay here."

"So you invite her to Camelot?" That was Arthur, twisting again in his warriors' grips. "Have you gone mad, Kay?"

"What did you expect me to do? Leave her?" Kay spun too quickly, stumbled, and would have fallen, had not Merlin caught him. He clawed himself free of the sorcerer's grasp, stepping closer to Arthur, angry now, and – as always – not mincing words. "Morgan will kill her, you young fool! Do you think she deserves that? Do you think I should have left her to take a punishment meant for me? She saved my life. If that doesn't make her our ally, then I don't know what does!"

"You're too sentimental! She must have some ulterior motive. Morgan put her up to this." Arthur's fear had turned to anger, a common enough release of tension. "You're not stupid, why don't you think?"

"For God's sake, why don't you ever listen to me?" Kay again grasped his brother's tunic in his left hand, this time in anger, and Brastias had to push him away.

"Take your hands off the king, Kay." He said it gently, but the words didn't have the calming effect he had hoped they would. Kay turned on him then, his eyes blazing.

"Do you think I would ever hurt my brother?" His breathing checked, and he laid a hand against his side with a groan. "Damn you, do you think I could?" He sagged then, his strength running out. It was Viviane who moved to lay her hands on him, giving him the support that she could. Arthur twisted free, while his warriors were distracted, and tried to pull her away.

"Don't touch him. Do you hear me? You keep your filthy hands off!"

Kay turned a gray face on his brother and pushed at him feebly. "Leave her alone, Arthur, she's not hurting anything."

Again Merlin stepped in, as if tired of watching the scene play out. "This is hardly the place to be arguing." He took Arthur's arm and forced him toward the dungeon stairs and the dungeons below, where the tunnel out waited. "It's almost sunrise. We'd better be away and gone."

Arthur's eyes narrowed, and he rasped out an order. "We're not taking her with us." His words roused Kay again, and he drew himself up, although Brastias knew he must be suffering.

"Then you're not taking me, either."

Merlin put an end to the matter with words that were surprisingly gentle. "We're taking you both." The look he turned on Arthur made the young king lift his chin stubbornly, but after a moment, he looked away from Merlin and nodded.

"Merlin's right. We have to go. We'll sort this out at Camelot." He broke away from Merlin and went to his brother, sliding an arm around him, and glaring Viviane away. Brastias went to help him, leaving Merlin to lead the way; the sorcerer knew the tunnels better anyway, and it was clear that Kay was not going to make it without some help. How the woman had gotten him this far, Brastias couldn't fathom.

It was left to Gawain to take Viviane's hand and lead her after the others.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Morgan groaned and raised her hand to her splitting head. It was several seconds before she remembered Viviane's betrayal, and when the memory came, it pushed her to her feet, though she cried out when she tried to put weight on her left hand, and swayed unsteadily when she gained her feet and looked about her.

The cell was empty; her prize had flown. The key to the manacles lay discarded on the floor. And Viviane was gone, too…

Morgan screamed her outrage, until she heard the running footsteps of the guards. Turning on them, she rasped out an order. "Search the castle! Every nook and cranny! He's escaped, and Viviane is helping him. When you find them, kill him. But bring her to me." She would make Viviane pay for this. Her executioner was skilled, she would try what he could do the traitoress. A brand to complement her tattoos, perhaps, or maybe she would have him flay Viviane alive. No one betrayed Morgan. She stepped out of the empty cell, watching the guards scatter to do her bidding. Her chambers weren't far. She stumbled toward them, calling for her women, grateful when they came at last and surrounded her, helping her into her bed, laying cool, soothing cloths against her forehead to ease the pain in her head, exclaiming over her hand as they carefully straightened the bones and bound them tightly in place.

She lay there as they washed the blood from her face and the wound in her arm, listened idly to their murmurs of concern. She had failed… Sybil had told her what to do, and it would have worked, if it hadn't been for Viviane… Viviane, whom she had trusted, whom she had raised up to be her confidante…

_This is the right result, child…_

Morgan sat up, looking around, finding only the startled faces of her servants… Sybil had never spoken to her here… Why now?

_You were given Viviane… Now you have entry into Camelot…_

"Sybil…?" She whispered the name, then waved her servants away. "Leave me! Go away!" They scurried out and she sank back against her pillows, staring upward with unseeing eyes. "Sybil…"

_Hush, child… Rest…_

Entry into Camelot… How? How did her mentors expect her to use this result? Why had Sybil come to her here, when she had only ever spoken to Morgan at her grave, in the night before the moonrise?

_Think, Morgan… You know what to do…_

"But I don't!" she cried to the empty room. "I don't know…" She sat up, looking around wildly, as if she could find the nun standing here, talking to her, as if Sybil could be alive and in this room somehow… "Help me…"

But no familiar voice answered her plea in sibilant whispers. The shadows gave back only silence.

Merlin sat by the bed as the sun descended toward the west, watching Kay as he slept, exhausted from the journey. His wounds had been cleaned and bandaged, the sprained wrist wrapped tightly in willow bark and immobilized in a sling. He was lucky the wrist wasn't broken; he would be able to wield a sword again, when it was healed.

It had been difficult persuading Arthur to leave the room to Merlin. He had wanted to stay with his brother and keep watch against Viviane, but Merlin thought that Viviane was not the threat Arthur thought she was. He had never caught the scent of danger off of her, while she was in Morgan's service, and it didn't stain her presence now. He thought she might be more sinned against than sinning, but Kay's seeming fascination with her was disturbing. Merlin had a sense that she could be used against them somehow, and if it were so, he suspected it would be Kay that took the brunt of that blow, whenever it might fall.

Arthur's accusation in the tunnels beneath Castle Pendragon had been truer than he knew. Merlin had been annoyed when the boy had asked Kay to come along with him. He had never intended for the king's foster family to have any part of his reign. Ector had been the right man to raise him, had taught him far more about honesty and integrity than anyone else in the kingdom ever could, but he was only a provincial lord, after all, more farmer than fighter. His blood was not exalted enough to be part of Arthur's court at Camelot… So, yes, at first Kay had been a thorn in Merlin's side, his existence more an irritation than anything…

But it hadn't taken him long to see the possibilities. Kay was very like his father, honest with a personal code that he adhered to with single-minded determination. And for all his youth, he gave Arthur sound advice. But more importantly, he balanced Arthur. Where the king was reckless, Kay thought things through; where the king expected what he wanted to fall into his hands, Kay refused to give in to that selfish streak. Where Arthur blew hot and angry, Kay was cool and level-headed. He was still uncertain of his place here, among warriors who were older and wiser, but he was not afraid to speak his mind and the knowledge he had gained from his father's books stood him in good stead.

Of late, there had been a hesitation between the brothers, a faltering of their certainty in each other. That they loved each other still was unquestioned; they had grown up as brothers, believing themselves blood kin, and that closeness would not be denied now. But they were no longer sure of how to behave to each other. Did the king take the lead and command his marshal? Did the marshal chastise his younger brother, the king? Had their positions changed?

If Ector had lived… Merlin sighed. But Ector hadn't lived, and both Kay and Arthur shared the grief of that. Loss was a breaker of men; it would be up to this family Merlin was building here in Camelot to see to it that loss didn't break Arthur. Merlin was finally beginning to understand that the key to that was Kay… He balanced Arthur, and in balancing him, made Arthur stronger. But by the same token, Arthur balanced Kay, and in balancing him made Kay a force to be reckoned with. They were indeed stronger together…

Kay stirred in his sleep, and Merlin leaned closer, murmuring words intended to soothe, so that the lad settled again into peace. The bruises were beginning to turn spectacular colors, but the swelling had gone down. Merlin had been careful with the cuts on his torso, cleansing them thoroughly and stitching the deepest one so that it wouldn't scar. Arthur had wanted to do it, but his young hands that were steady enough when wielding sword and shield had shaken as he tried to thread the needle, so at last Merlin had taken it from him and done the deed himself. There were broken ribs, and a bruised and twisted shoulder, but all in all the damage hadn't been as bad as they had feared.

But there would have to be changes. Morgan knew now what had slipped from her grasp. She understood how to hurt Arthur, and they would have to guard against her more carefully because she had gained that knowledge. More importantly, Merlin would have to ease the uncertainty that had arisen between them; they were too wary now, unsure of how to feel their way toward the solid relationship they had thought they understood implicitly and found that they didn't. It wasn't enough to say that Arthur's kingship changed nothing. In fact, it didn't, but neither of the brothers was entirely sure that was true.

So… A word in Brastias' ear and in Gawain's that Kay could lay hands on the king when no one else could. A thrashing at the hands of someone so unquestionably loyal might do Arthur some good now and then. A word to both brothers to yell at each other if they felt the urge; argument could be healthy when there was no real danger of a breach. They needed to feel like brothers again, precisely because they were stronger together.

Merlin looked up at the pink fingers of sunset that striped the sky. Yes, there was much work to do… And guarding against Morgan's enchantments would not be easy. What to do about the problem of Viviane…?

But that was an enigma for tomorrow. For tonight, he would watch over his patient and plot against Morgan; Arthur's rage at her was the right response. Her mistreatment of Kay was simply added to the list of crimes she had committed. She deserved to die for them, and she would get that just punishment someday.


End file.
